


the smell is always earthy

by insistentbass



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-20
Updated: 2012-05-20
Packaged: 2017-11-20 13:43:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insistentbass/pseuds/insistentbass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I've been waiting since forever for you to ask"</p>
            </blockquote>





	the smell is always earthy

The smell is always earthy, strong, when John slips into a dream. It’s all rain sodden ground and new sprouting greens, the sturdy skin of a tall oak and the wind; the wind whispers and fingers through his hair, gently dances on the flaps of Sherlock’s long coat.  
  
At first John thinks it’s weird that these recurring dreams always happen post-coital - but it actually makes sense. In those few sweat cooling hours they are both as peaceful as they will ever be, touching from collar and chin to thighs. They are consumed by one another, equally. They are part of the same system of breathing, the same knots of veins and landscapes of bare skin; entirely _John and Sherlock_. They thrive and grow in these hours.  
  
His visions (and they are as _clear_ as visions; John feels the press of the air on his nose and hears the grass brush against Sherlock’s trouser legs) are always slightly different. Most of the time they are simply walking through fields of Scottish heather and bramble, Sherlock’s arm looped through John’s, synchronised footfalls. Other times they are running through cobbled streets lined with rain shaken trees, still connected, hand in hand. And sometimes John can’t quite remember what they were doing (perhaps sitting in front of the fire, John torturously typing away and Sherlock speaking to him through slow strokes of his violin) but he knows the scent of it; he knows for sure that it’s natural, it resonates clear in his mind and he can taste it on his lips when he wakes.  
  
John thinks maybe one day, reality will catch up with his head. Sherlock prospers in London, he knows each street better than he knows the crease of his own hand. John knows that they won’t be leaving anytime soon and he doesn’t want to, either - not yet. They still have life and vitality and a thirst for crime scenes, London is the perfect canvas for that, for now.  
  
  
//  
  
  
It’s on a dreary, average and all too _cliché_ Monday morning that John feels the tendrils of his dreams start to seep into real life.  
  
The routine is just as it always is; Sherlock lies stretched out across the sofa with his fingers steepled below his chin, watching John busy himself with making tea and buttering toast. They glance at each other and the only difference between this and any other morning is that Sherlock doesn’t give his usual smirk smile back; he _frowns_. (A deep frown, a worrying frown, and one that John hasn’t seen before).  
  
“What’s wrong?” He asks, because nothing is right with the creases in Sherlock’s face, nothing at all. John brings over the tea, leaves the toast, and settles in his arm chair, his whole body clenched instinctively.  
  
“There’s a question I need to ask you, but I’m not sure how.” Sherlock states; calm, low, steady - John relaxes an inch or so. He tips his head and sips his tea as an indication for his (Friend? Partner? Lover? None of those seem right.) to carry on.  
  
Those steely eyes focus on some point in the kitchen, and it’s another few seconds before Sherlock speaks again. This tells John that it must be important because, _well_ , Sherlock never pauses for more than half a breath when he has something on his mind that he needs to get out of it.  
  
“John, I will never retire.” He begins, and John can practically here Sherlock’s mouth catching up with his brain, forming connections and selecting the right words through trial and error. “I will never fully stop my work. I simply can’t, not even for you.”  
  
That fact isn’t any news to John, and he knows it doesn’t change a single ounce of anything, not feeling or sentiment, between them. The work is part of them, it _is_ them, it _keeps_ them. John accepted that during the first week of meeting the man.  
  
“Yet, I feel our days of crime scenes and _London_ , are over. I’m not bored, John, but I need to move on. The physicality, is taxing.”  
  
And what Sherlock really means to say, (because John can read between the lines just as well as he can make Sherlock moan in the most delicious ways) is that he is exhausted. He’s tired, he’s existing instead of living and John has known it for a few months now. Lestrade has been phoning them more frequently than not, and it’s all petty murders, jealous rages - nothing since Moriarty has ever been _worth it_. It’s been a simple case of remaining patient, and waiting for Sherlock to know it too.  
  
Then Sherlock looks at him and there’s _the_ question; bold and brightly burning in his pupils.  
  
“If I leave, John, will you come with me?”  
  
(John tastes the sweetness of mid-afternoon air, the tang of rain.)  
  
“Sherlock,”  
  
He smiles around his tea cup, places it down slowly and deliberately on the coffee table to lean forwards. John brushes his knuckles lightly against Sherlock’s dressing gown clad leg, from ankle to knee.  
  
“I’ve been waiting since forever for you to ask.”  
  
  
//  
  
  
“John, it’s a _shack_.”  
  
The doctor laughs, pulls at a tangle of weeds clinging desperately to the large brass knocker of the door. Yes, it probably is a _bit_ of a shack - but it’s a big house (huge, in fact) in the highlands of Scotland far away from anyone that Sherlock can piss off, with more than enough space for the man to have his own laboratory/room to blow stuff up in. Sherlock had moaned the whole way through the house, even picking at a bit of stray wallpaper in the larger of two reception rooms, before agreeing to keep an open mind.   
  
Sherlock even went so far as to criticize the roll top bath, the point at which John realised he was just being teased - (“Well we can just buy another one, Sherlock, then it’ll be big enough even for your _gigantic ego_ ” A smirk, a raised eyebrow, and a five minute fit of childish laughter, finished with a brief kiss to his temple.)  
  
It was the grounds really, that had won John over, even from the pixelated internet photos. He had spent hours looking over them, researching the location and transport links and how long it would take Lestrade to post case details over to them. Greg had looked almost faint when John had broken the news to him, (“Bloody _Scotland_?”), but had then realised that Sherlock would still be able to do the majority of case work without even _needing_ to be at the crime scene. The inspector would miss them like hell, obviously, but John had promised visits and even Skype calls because (despite Sherlock’s stiff goodbye) they would both equally feel the hole where that part of their lives used to be. Mrs Hudson had cried, been bitter with them for about two hours, before coming up with a tray of tea and cakes and spending the night reminiscing about the few times Sherlock had helped her, and the _many_ times he had _saved_ her.  
  
About four acres of land are attached to the property; the area closet to the house a mess of overgrown plants and several sturdy looking oaks, an old barn, then a fence and an adjoining field that seems to roll on into the horizon. Sickeningly idyllic, John thinks, but they deserve some _perfect_ after an existence of constant turmoil.  
  
“It just needs a bit of a tidy up, is all,” John replies, following Sherlock as he moves around to inspect the back of the house, the tails of his coat getting caught on brambles. “Just a lick of paint and some DIY.”  
  
Sherlock throws a look over his shoulder that says ‘ _I’m a genius, not a handyman’_ before he disappears around a corner.  
  
When John eventually fights through the crowd of weeds he finds Sherlock crouched low, stroking a gloved hand slowly across the mould-eaten wood of a beehive. He crosses his arms and watches as Sherlock circles it twice, then _hmms,_ his interest obviously piqued. He moves to stand in front of John, a grin curling at the corners of his lips.  
  
“It definitely _is_ a shack, regardless of what magical DIY you have planned. But, it’s spacious, plenty of land and miles away from other human beings. _Sold_ , John.”  
  
Feeling highly accomplished, (though a little bit disappointed that he hadn’t been given a chance to go through his pre-prepared speech of why Sherlock should just let _him_ make a decision for once),  John smiles back, presses a firm kiss to his jaw.  
  
“Well that’s good.” He whispers near his ear, takes a step back. “Because I already put in an offer.”  
  
The narrowing of Sherlock’s eyes is almost comical but John turns his back to him, beginning to forge a path towards the front of the house.  
  
“Oh, and it’s been accepted.”                                                              
  


  


  



End file.
